


Morning Kisses

by snoaz



Category: Pocket Monsters SPECIAL | Pokemon Adventures, Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-17
Updated: 2015-11-20
Packaged: 2018-04-15 05:24:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4594500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snoaz/pseuds/snoaz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lazy mornings are Blue's favourite thing. Green just might agree. Oldrivalshipping.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Green

**Author's Note:**

> There is no purpose to this fic. I merely I wanted to write Blue and Green making out, so... I wrote Blue and Green making out? All right.

 

They're staying the night at an expensive hotel because of a Pokémon Association conference held in Saffron with after-party (obligatory, unfortunately) and even _he_ didn't quite fancy travelling all the way back to Viridian at three in the morning. As for the expensive part: Blue wouldn't accept anything less, of course.  
  
She'd danced all night, being the radiant centre of attention in her sleek black dress. He, for his part, had mostly excused himself from conversations and looked at his watch every fifteen minutes as the evening proceeded. Quite unfortunate that these things were apparently considered part of the job. A bit of an outrage, too.  
  
But despite having a seemingly never-ending supply of energy at her disposal, Blue was more than happy to kick off her heels when they'd finally retreated to their hotel room, and let herself fall back on the king-size bed with a drawn-out, “I'm knackered.'”  
  
Green was too, albeit more of the mental than the physical sort. Enduring small talk was tiresome.  
  
After they'd changed clothes – and Blue had spent ten minutes in the bathroom scrubbing off her layers of make-up – they lay down under the covers, too tired to even exchange a proper goodnight. As he turned off the light, Blue was already asleep.

 

 

When Green wakes up he feels rejuvenated. Perhaps there's something to say for overpriced beds, after all. He isn't sure what time it, and nor does he particularly care to check. Instead he peeks at the woman lying next to him, just now stirring into awareness. Her hair's slightly messy, but still attractively so. Undoubtedly courtesy of all the product she uses (though of course Blue would insist it's just her natural beauty).  
  
She yawns behind her hand before sleepily turning to Green. “I want breakfast,” she mumbles.  
  
“Get dressed then,” he answers, not even sure if breakfast is still being served.  
  
“No, ring roomservice,” she mumbles again, dismissively waving a hand in the general area of where the phone stands, and closes her eyes again.  
  
Green sighs. Of course he picks up the phone anyway, because he needs breakfast himself and if they're staying in a fancy hotel they might as well reap the benefits. As he orders, Blue interrupts him with her demands, face on the pillow and eyes closed but mind apparently set on strawberries and scones. She has a remarkable talent for being (seemingly) asleep and still making sure she gets what she wants.  
  
Green rolls his eyes, requesting extra strawberries with the receptionist lady but drawing the line at ice cream.  
  
Someone's gotta be the sensible one here.  
  
As they wait for roomservice to arrive, both doze off again. The bed's soft and sunlight filters through the beige curtains. It might be a beautiful day outside, but surprisingly Green doesn't care much. Well, he'll spend all afternoon training outside, he vaguely thinks, making up for current laziness.  
  
After a while there's a knock on the door and a voice announcing roomservice. Naturally Blue doesn't stir – she also has a remarkable talent for feigning sleep in order to dodge less pleasant tasks – so with a grumble he throws his legs over the bedside and blearily walks towards the door. He probably looks like a reawakened zombie, but hey, vanity has never helped a person.  
  
He still rubs his face before opening the door.  
  
The breakfast cart is loaded with food (toast, croissants, fruit, scones) but it's the smell of coffee that makes him almost salivate. He _craves_ coffee. The rest can wait.  
  
As he returns to the bed, Blue pops herself up on one elbow and looks at the cart expectantly. Her eyes light up as she takes in the scones and strawberries.  
  
“Looking good?” he asks, taking in the image of Blue at something-something in the morning.  
  
“Mmm,” she agrees non-committally. Her eyes then turn towards him and her smile grows. “Are you also part of breakfast?” she asks coyly.  
  
The corner of his mouth turns up slightly. “We'll see,” he just says and slips back under the covers.  
  
As Blue feasts on her scones with strawberries (“not as good with no ice cream, but it'll do”) Green relishes his coffee. Yes, he is aware that starting the day with black coffee might not be the healthiest thing in the world, but it's the fastest way to clear his head, so there you go.  
  
Blue, meanwhile, chatters away, saying something about some b-rated celebrity she met yesterday and mix-drinks and wanting to go to the beach (Green doesn't attempt to find the common factor between those topics: he'd stopped paying full attention after the soap star topic was broached). He rubs his eyes.  
  
“You talk too much, woman,” he mutters.  
  
Blue merely rolls her eyes. “Here, have some toast. You've only had black coffee so far, no wonder you're so chagrined.”  
  
Green decides against telling her this is pretty much his default mood (she should know) and instead accepts the buttered toast from her.  
  
“How many scones have you had?” he asks with an eye towards the the fast-emptying bowl.  
  
“Oh, I don't know,” she answers unconcernedly, “d'you want some?”  
  
“No thank you, I'm not big on them.”  
  
“I knew you'd say that,” Blue grins, “because I didn't plan on sharing anyway.”  
  
It's his turn to roll his eyes.  
  
The bed becomes a little messy, especially when the croissants appear (he is reminded why he never eats breakfast in bed) but despite being annoyed he doesn't comment on it. He already knows what Blue's answer would be, after all.  
  
Either it'd be 'you're too stuck up, live a little' or 'I know a way to make the bed even messier'.  
  
To which he'd merely roll his eyes ( _again_ ).  
  
He wonders if they're really that predictable, but decides it's probably a side-effect of the whole love-and-live-together thing. (Bad) habits rubbing off on each other and secrets eroding.  
  
Hmm.  
  
Blue lets out a content sigh when she finally announces that she's had enough, and stretches her arms above her head. The image is somewhat similar to a Persian stretching its legs after a good meal, before contentedly laying down to sleep in the sunlight. Well, there are less fitting Pokémon to compare Blue to, certainly. Green takes her silence as his cue to somewhat tidy up the bed – meaning shoving the crumbles off the covers and not to worry about it.  
  
“See, these are the assets of quality hotels,” Blue remarks contentedly. (If she could purr, she would.) “Nice breakfast, good beds... I don't even _feel_ my feet anymore.”  
  
“Well, that's nothing to worry about,” he deadpans, and receives a jab to the thigh from said feet.  
  
“I mean I don't feel my feet _hurt_ anymore,” she explains in an I-should-be-eyerolling-here-tone, “which is also good for you because it means you don't have to massage them.”  
  
“Oh, lucky me indeed,” he agrees wholeheartedly, thinking that being a good boyfriend should not include giving foot massages.  
  
Blue has closed her eyes again, smiling now in that satisfied way that only happens when you're warm, comfortable, stress-free, and just had the pleasure of a good meal. He's feeling rather relaxed himself, too.  
  
After another unfruitful attempt to make the bed crumb-free, he scoots over to her, putting a hand on her shoulder. She opens her eyes and turns to him. He likes how she looks in the mornings – there's something vulnerable and honest about her without the layers of make-up and masks that appear when there's other people around.  
  
“You've got some jam left there,” Green remarks – chides – not surprised in the least. She's a rather messy eater, especially when it comes to the things she loves (strawberry jam; strawberry ice cream; strawberries in general).  
  
He extends a finger to wipe it off, but thinks again, not quite fancying sticky fingers. Instead he leans in and kisses the corner of her mouth; licking off the red stuff in one careful swipe.  
  
Blue lets out a giggle – if twenty-two-year-old women giggle – and looks at him with a gleam in her eyes as he leans back.  
  
“Now you taste like strawberry too,” she says.  
  
“Your masterplan I bet,” he sighs, only half joking.  
  
“Mmm,” she agrees, and puts her arm around his waist. “C'mere so I can taste.”  
  
He rolls his eyes but sees no objections to that, and thus leans in once again, kissing her properly this time.  
  
Of course there's the taste of strawberry, but he's used to that. It's become equivalent to Blue, anyway, like mint apparently has become equivalent to him (Blue complained that it didn't mix with strawberry, but if she wasn't going to quit her addiction, _he_ certainly wasn't going to change habits either).  
  
There is no mint taste now, though. Just strawberry, and softness. Morning kisses are strange like that: it seems their bodies are more pliable, sharp edges removed, mouth, hands, faces soft.  
  
Surely it is psychological. Still.  
  
Her two arms are around his waist and he presses closer. He likes the way she feels against him: skin and curves and long legs, one ankle hooked around his own. She moves her foot and trails it leisurely along his calf, up and down. Her idea of a foot massage, likely.  
  
It's slow, and it's nice, and now and then Blue will make little sounds – soft sighs – undetectable if it weren't for the total silence in the room. Time has slowed down it seems.  
  
Again: an illusion. _Still_.  
  
After quite some time he pulls back a little, catching his breath. He pushes away the chestnut hair laying across her shoulder, making it bare except for the thin black strap of her nightgown. It's the one she always wears when they're going away, satiny and too short to be functional. He hooks one finger around it. Her eyes watch as he lowers it. Now there's just skin: light, inviting. There are no blemishes from her neck down to her shoulder.  
  
He lowers himself and kisses the spot right under her jaw. She gasps a little. He repeats, opens his mouth slightly, leaves a wet trail down her neck. His hand goes from her shoulder down to her side: chest, narrow waist, hip, thigh. Her body is warm against his.  
  
Although real at first, the longer he's at it the more exaggerated her sounds become. “Green, you're so good at this,” she moans as he reaches her collarbone.  
  
He stops mid-kiss and raises an eyebrow at her.  
  
“Oh please,” she smirks in response, “you love it when I compliment you.”  
  
He doesn't deign to give an answer, seeing as obviously it's not true.  
  
( _Well_. Maybe it is a little.)  
  
Before he can finish what he'd started, though, he suddenly gets flipped on his back and Blue's on top of him. Her lips are very red, he notices – all natural this time.  
  
With her fingers she flicks some hair away from his forehead. “Shall I now demonstrate how good _I_ am at this?”  
  
“Be my guest,” he replies with another raised eyebrow and then she leans in to kiss him.  
  
It isn't a passionate kiss. It isn't a demure kiss either. It's one of those slow, tantalising, drawn-out kisses that would leave lesser people immobile. He's not one of them, of course, though it cannot be denied that the longer the kiss goes on, the less easy it is to gather his thoughts.  
  
Pesky woman – though it's a bit hard to recall in this instant all the actual reasons she annoys him (apart from currently robbing him of his sanity) because the things he _likes_ about her are all the clearer. Sort of jumbled together, not a very organised list – but there's her hair, tickling his face now and then, faintly smelling of the rose shampoo she uses; and her hands, very soft, one tangled in his own hair, the other holding his face just so; her full breasts, pressed against his chest; the slight scent of her perfume, still detectable after a night's sleep; her legs, arms, sighs, _mouth_.  
  
Her left hand travels down his arm, prickling his skin, then sneaking under his grey t-shirt. The light touches leave goosebumps on his skin. He doesn't get how such a simple action can create such strong reactions, but has long given up on trying to understand. Her hand wanders further up his chest, hidden from sight by fabric and its owner – but very real in touch, very warm. He squirms a little. She smiles against his mouth.  
  
He relocates his hand to the small of her back. The fabric of her nightgown is so flimsy it might as well be taken off.  
  
As he contemplates doing just that, she pulls away a little.  
  
“D'you know that morning kisses are my favourite?” she murmurs.  
  
Green does know – but is fine with reminding her all over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blue's POV in the next chapter!


	2. Blue

 

There are a number of reasons why Blue likes Saturday mornings. One of them is the fact that she can lie in. The other is that Green can too. The third is the obvious result of those two.

As she wakes to a patch of sunlight falling through the curtains and an insistent choir of Pidgey and Spearow – perks (or not) of the countryside – she stretches her arms above her head and yawns delightedly. Nothing like waking up after a good night's sleep and not having to leave the bed. _Also_ nothing like waking up next to a handsome, if slightly disheveled, man.

She turns on her side and for a while looks at the image of Green in the morning, his hair sticking out at some sides and his mouth slightly agape. He looks vulnerable like this; cute, even.

She taps her finger to her lips, thinking, and then whispers in his ear, “You're cute.”

Green stirs in his sleep and Blue smirks. This is the one time she could get away with mentioning the word cute in combination with Green Oak without the latter objecting vehemently and full of indignation. Such ignorance: as if he doesn't know that sometimes being cute is a _good_ thing.

She props herself up on her elbow and rests her head on her hand. Green's position hasn't changed, his hair still messy and his mouth still hanging slightly open. There's a certain feeling of fondness in her chest as she looks down on him: a soft spreading warmth. It's pleasant. She associates it with mornings like these, filtered sunlight and undisturbed quietness.

Sometimes you need moments like those, even ( _especially_ ) if the rest of your life is a never-ending sequence of risk, drama and adventure.

She leans down, strokes his hair, and whispers, “You're so cute it'd _shock_ you.”

This time Green stirs a bit more. She leans back and watches the process of someone slowly but surely regaining consciousness. Just as she's about to lean in again he opens one eye.

“What are you doing?”

“I was just informing you how cute you look.” Even in his sleepy state he impressively manages to raise an eyebrow. “I mean, how handsome and _manly_ you look,” she corrects herself with a brilliant smile that she knows won't fool him, but anyway, that wasn't her intention in the first place.

He sighs and rubs his face, probably willing himself to be awake so he can run off towards the Gym and train there all day.

Which is not going to happen.

She slings an arm over his chest and presses a lazy kiss to his cheek.

“Did you sleep well, honey?”

“Yes.” He absentmindedly runs his forefinger over her arm, back and forth. It tickles. “You?”

“ _Perfect_ ,” Blue answers and rolls on top of him.

She's met with a resigned groan.

“You're heavy,” he sighs.

“Nuh-uh, don't ever discuss a lady's weight,” she chides, resting her hands on his shoulders, “ _rather_ let's discuss how you apparently can't even handle me.”

“You mean to say I should work out more? Shall I go right now --”

“ _No_ ,” Blue cuts in and Green smiles a tad smugly as if he knew she'd say that, “you're free to do so _after_.”

“After, of course,” he replies and then she kisses him, if only to stop him from talking or protesting. (The two are often kind of the same thing with Green anyway.)

He has a little bit of stubble, something she knows he'll shave off right away once he's out of bed – he never pays attention to her insisting that stubble is synonymous for sexy – so she enjoys it while she can.

“Why are you rubbing my jaw?” he mumbles in the kiss, and she thinks fondly, _isn't he so cute._ When he touches his jaw and notices the stubble, he rolls his eyes. “Right, is that your fetish again.”

“It's not a fetish, it's just a preference for you having rough skin.”

“Because you enjoy having your skin be irritated.”

She gives him a disappointed look. “You ought to have said, 'because you like it rough'.”

“It's too early for this conversation.” He looks sideways at the alarm clock, showing it's ten in the morning. “Actually, it's _always_ too early for this conversation.”

“So kiss me again, hmm?”

He sighs but pulls her towards him, arms around her waist; mouth soft; smelling like sleep and smelling like Green.

The fact that she's the only one who can define that scent gives her a little thrill.

Contentedly she lets her hands run over his shoulders and upper-arms, then on to his chest. Green in fact does not need to work out more, because even through his shirt she can feel the muscle. Not too much and not too little: exactly the way she likes it.

“Oh, how lucky I am to have a boyfriend like you,” she sighs against his mouth, mostly because she's an actress that needs an audience but also because it's kind of true.

“Stop overreacting,” he mutters, and she thinks that for someone with a sizable ego like his, Green is surprisingly allergic to compliments.

Probably thinks he doesn't need them. Well, _that's_ something to be rectified.

“Ah, but it's true,” she says smoothly, running a hand through his bed-hair and smiling down at him, “I mean, of course you're a workaholic who thinks smiling is for lesser beings – proven by the fact that your current expression is like _that_ while there's a gorgeous lady lying on top of you giving you compliments....”

“You're calling me a workaholic and a chronic chagrin.”

“Because you _are_. That was just the prelude to me complimenting you, see.”

He lets out something in-between a scoff and an amused sound, which is Green's reaction to things that should be annoying but aren't, really. “Can you even hear the things you're saying?”

“Naturally, I'm not deaf. Now, are all _your_ senses in order? You do see and feel me, don't you? Just checking because of your complete lack of reaction here.”

“I feel you perfectly fine,” he replies and there's the hint of a smirk there that makes her want to do away with all the talking and skip ten steps ahead.

Patience.

Instead she leans down to kiss his lips once before pulling back again. She traces the skin on his face with her forefinger, his cheekbones, nose, jaw. “Mmm, so handsome,” she murmurs and if that isn't the honest truth. If only she could capture that image for posterity. _If only he'd let her._

(Next time she should take a picture before starting the whispering part.)

She buries her head in the warm crook of his neck. “And you smell so nice,” she continues in-between light kisses, knowing he'll contradict her, but: _that's them._

That's the two of them.

“Honestly...” he remarks, and she secretly smiles.

“And then your _body_ ,” she goes on without skipping a beat, lowering her hands to his chest, feeling cotton fabric but knowing what's underneath, “why do you even bother wearing clothes?”

“I assume that's not an actual question that needs to be answered,” he says in a tone that implies that he has some choice answers in mind.

“Hmm no, don't be a bore,” she remarks, moving her hands lower, “and anyway, the only good reason there is for you wearing a shirt in bed is so I have the pleasure of taking it off.”

“Oh my god,” he groans, and puts a weary hand over his face.

She pouts a little, even though the only audience has currently got his two eyes covered. “Don't be a spoilsport. I've only just gotten started.”

He removes his hand again. “Trust me, you'd react the same if you were in my place.”

“Actually no, I imagine I'd get rather turned on hearing that from me.”

“...all right that is a taking narcissism to a whole new level of disturbing, can we just skip the talking already?”

She gives a bigger pout, because this time she _does_ have an audience.

“You only want me for my body,” she complains, facetiously.

“I'm pretty sure we've established just now you only want _me_ for my body,” he reminds her, and, well, _touché._

“Fine,” she says, giving in not only to him but also to her own wishes.

She moves up to kiss him again, slowly and at a pace set by her and her alone – and the fact that he mostly lets her gives her another one of those pleasant thrills. It can be a little addictive, this. Not the actual kissing (though that too, very much so) but especially the trust that goes with it, and the fact that it comes from someone like Green who craves control and independence as much as she does.

Yet when it's ten minutes into the kiss (and things have started to get a little heated) and Green flips her so _she_ has to surrender control, it isn't so bad either. Rather the contrary – and isn't that so very surprising? To not be the one in charge and not resent it.

To _not_ feel weak.

Instead, she mostly feels warm in that most pleasant of ways, the kind that only appears in moments like these when time seems suspended for a bit. She smiles into the kiss and is so lost in thought that for a moment she forgets to react altogether.

Green breaks apart, looking at her from eyes that have become slightly hazy. “Hmm?”

“Nothing,” she says, and then, thinking again: “I love you.”

He gives her a small smile. “I know.”

She touches his face for a moment, feeling strangely wistful, and leans up to bring herself close to him again. She pecks his lips and whispers: “But I'd love you more if you'd finally take off that shirt of yours.”

Green looks torn between wanting to smile and roll his eyes, but compromises by sitting up. “Don't you wanna do the honours?”

“I'll just enjoy the show from here this time if that's all right with you,” she says with a teasing lilt to her voice, to which he does roll his eyes but also lifts the shirt over his shoulders in one go.

She bites her lip (fifty percent instinct, fifty percent acting) because she does not think that the sight greeting her will _ever_ get old.

Of course her reaction doesn't go unnoticed. If one thing thing can be said about Green it's that he is perceptive, though of course that isn't much of an accomplishment regarding her, seeing as _she's_ never been one for subtlety when giving praise, verbal or nonverbal. Green, in any case, looks a little amused and definitely a little smug from where he's sitting. “Oh come here,” she says with a flourish and as he does his expression doesn't change one bit.

_Obviously._

With the shirt gone, the kiss (and her morning) have already improved by about fifty percent. Sometimes she's easy to please like that.

In other words: the notion that is she is spoiled or picky is ridiculous.

Well.

_Kind of._

“I need you to say it back,” she whispers against his mouth.

Green looks at her for a moment and then says, “I love you.”

And _that's_ how a morning becomes completely perfect.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing banter between Green and Blue is just my favourite thing. They're just a really nice pairing to write. Hope you enjoyed this two-shot! ♡


End file.
